is not in the garden," she thought. "He will catch cold, and his cough was so bad last week. I am glad I remembered to bring some lozenges for him.”

The train sped on past Woking and the fir woods beyond; they reminded her of the trees round the cottage at Witley. When it was dark to-night, she would look up at them before she bolted the door after Jane Mitchell. And then she and Alfred would sit over the fire and talk; he would feel so much better after his dinner, she was sure he would be kind to her. He had been worried lately with poverty, but just for a little while he should forget it. With the future she did not concern herself, for she had already devised a plan that would make it easy. She would go and see Mr. Boughton, and of course he would help them when he heard that Alfred was her husband. He would continue the allowance he had given them, and when Sir William Rammage made a new will he would take care that it was not an iniquitous one. It had never seriously occurred to her that William would leave her money, though, once or twice, the possibility had crossed her mind. But she had never been able to look forward at all for herself. "Now," she thought, "I must give the future my consideration. I must think of it for my dear Alfred. Luxuries are necessary to him; he cannot divest himself of his

longing for them. Perhaps when Mr. Boughton returns he will make William ashamed of his conduct to me to-day, and he will do something for us before he dies; it would be very detrimental to his pride that we should starve, and I did not mince words to-day." The train passed Milford Station; in a few minutes she would be at Witley. "I hope Alfred won't be angry with me for coming by the earlier train," she thought, with some misgiving. "I will explain to him that I had finished my commissions in town sooner than I had anticipated, and, seeing that the weather was not likely to improve, I thought it better to return, even at the risk of his displeasure."

66

The governess cart was waiting for her. "I brought an umbrella," Lucas said, "as it was raining. I noticed you went without one this morning, and the weather has come on that unexpected bad, I was afraid you would get wet through."

"I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness," Aunt Anne said, with distant graciousness. She put her bag out of reach of the rain, and cared little for herself. She was too full of other matters to

trouble about the weather. As she went along the straight road, of which by this time she knew every yard, she mentally counted up the shillings in her pocket, and considered that she ought to give one of them to Lucas. "He has been most attentive," she said, and she managed to extract the coin from her pocket, and put it into her black silk glove, ready for the end of the journey, which she considered would be the right moment to present it. The rain came down steadily. It was no longer aslant or fitful, and in the sky overhead there were no changing clouds. "I fear you have had an unfavorable day," she said to Lucas.

"It has rained mostly all the time. I hope you won't catch cold, ma'am. I thought I saw you with a cloak this morning; have you left it behind?"

Aunt Anne resented the question; she thought it was unduly familiar, and she answered coldly:for a purpose.

"I have left it behind It required renovating," she added. "I might have brought you a shawl, or something, if I had known. I called at the house as I passed to see if Mr. Wimple would like to come and meet you. But he wasn't in."

"I hope he is not out in the rain," she said to herself. "Did the servant say if he had been out long?" she asked. "She said he had been gone half an hour. It's a pity I missed him."

66

He probably had an engagement," she said, and a little uneasiness stole over her. Another mile. She could scarcely conceal her impatience. "Couldn't the pony run up this little hill?" she asked.

"It could," said Lucas rather contemptuously; "but Mrs. Burnett don't like him to run up-hill, she don't she thinks it's bad for him." Aunt Anne was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to answer. "He goes faster than the donkey did last year, anyhow, maʼam; do you mind the donkey?"

"I frequently drove him."

"He was a deal of trouble, he was," Lucas went on; "and they didn't do well by him-gave four pound ten for him, and when they come to sell him a year later they only got two pound five."

"So that they were mulcted of just half the sum for which they had purchased him," she said absently, having quickly done the sum in her head. "Was there any reason for that?"

"Well, you see, this was it," said Lucas "when gentry first come to live about here they took to keeping donkeys,

so donkeys went up; then after a bit they | found they wouldn't go, and they took to selling them and buying ponies, so donkeys went down. I am afraid you are getting very wet, ma'am. I wish I had thought to bring a rug to cover you. But here we are at the house, and you'll be able to dry yourself by the fire."

"Thank you, Lucas, thank you," and she slipped the shilling into his hand, and, taking her bulging bag from under the seat, walked into the house by the back door.

"Jane," she asked, the moment she crossed the threshold, "where is Mr. Wimple?"

"He went out an hour and a half ago, ma'am."

"Do you know in what direction he went?"

"Well, last time I saw him he was in the garden; then I see him going down the dip."

She was silent for a moment, then she asked gently:

"Was he at home all the morning?" and received an answer in the affirmative. She was silent, and seemed to turn something over in her mind.

"You are quite sure he went down the dip, and not more than an hour and a half ago?" She stood by the kitchen fire, and she spoke absently. "I have brought a sole for dinner," she said. "I must ask you to cook it more carefully than you did the last one, Jane. Mr. Wimple is most particular about fish — he cannot eat it unless it is quite dry. After the sole there is a chicken and some asparagus. Give me my bag — there are some other things in it, and a bottle of claret at the bottom, which I wish put on the dining room mantel-shelf for an hour. I trust you have made a good fire, Jane?"

"Yes, ma'am; but I had to do it of wood, for the coals are nearly out."

"I prefer wood; it is not my intention to have more coal just yet," said Aunt Anne firmly. "Where have you put the primroses I brought? I wish to arrange them in a bowl for the centre of the table." "Hadn't you better take off your shawl first, ma'am - it's wringing wet-and let me make you a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you, I will not trouble you to do that," Aunt Anne said gently. "But put Mr. Wimple's slippers by the fire in the dining-room." She went into the drawing-room and held a match to the grate, and stood beside it while the paper blazed and the wood crackled, thinking

that she and Alfred would sit over the fire cosily that evening after dinner.

"I am sure he is worried about money," she said to herself, "and that he is in debt; but he shall not have his anxieties long-it is much better that his uncle should know about our marriage." Her eyes turned towards the window and the garden and the trees with the rain falling on them. "I wonder if he has gone far; I hope he is not depressed. I fear he worries himself unduly," she said, and went into the dining-room. The slippers were toasting in the fender; she turned the easy-chair towards the fire and put beside it a little table from the corner of the

room. Then she went for the papers she had brought from London, and arranged them on it, and put the little bunch of violets in a glass and set it by the papers. She drew back and looked at the cosey arrangement with satisfaction. "My darling Alfred!" she said to herself; and then, softly, as if she were afraid of Jane hearing her, she crept out of the front door and under the veranda that went round the house, and looked out at the weather. The rain had nearly stopped, but the sky was grey and the air was cold. She pulled her shawl closer, and, trying to shake off the chill that was overtaking her, went swiftly down the garden pathway. At the far end the grass was long and wet; the drops fell from the beeches and larches above. She found the narrow pathway that led to the dip, and went along it. She looked anxiously ahead, but there was no sign of Alfred. "I know he will be glad to see me," she thought. "I know the silent tenderness of his heart- my dar ling—my darling, you are all I have in the world!"

On she went among the gorse, between the firs, and over the clumps of budding heather, a limp, black figure in the misty twilight. She had no definite reason for supposing he would return that way; but she knew it to be a short cut from the Liphook direction, and some strange instinct seemed to be sending her on; she did not hesitate or falter, but just obeyed it. The pathway was very narrow, the wet growth on either side brushed her skirts as she passed by-down and down — lower and lower-towards the valley. On the other side, a quarter of a mile away, she could see the little thatched shed the children called their "house," where perhaps in past days a cow had been tethered. There was not a sign of Alfred. "Perhaps he is a little farther on, over the

"Well, you don't have to kiss her, as she's your aunt," she said, with a laugh.

"I have to kiss her night and morning," he answered; "but I get out of her way as much as possible-you can bet that." "Mother and grandmother are always saying, perhaps she will give you the slip and leave her money to somebody else."

"I don't think she'll do that," he said; "but that's one reason why I keep a sharp lookout."

"Hasn't she got anything now? You don't seem to get much out of her, if she has."

"She's a close-fisted old woman. Come up closer on my shoulder- I like feeling your face there."

"Suppose she died to-morrow," the woman said; "where would you be then?"

"Of course there's that danger. One must risk something."

"And is she sure to get money when this what is it? her cousin - dies?" "She'll get five-and-twenty thousand pounds. I have seen his will, so I know it's true."

"Does she know herself?" "No".

laugh.

and he laughed a little short

Aunt Anne, listening and shuddering, remembered, oddly, that she had hardly ever heard him laugh in her life before. "But how did you manage to see the will?"

"I told you before, Caroline, I saw it in my uncle's office; so there is no mistake about it, if that is what you mean."

"We'll have good times, Alfred, once we've got our money?"

"Yes, we will," he answered, with de termination.

"You mustn't think that I care only for the money," the girl went on; "it's your being away that I care about most."

"I care about money; I want money, Caroline - I don't like being poor." "You see, I have always been poor, and don't mind so much."

"You won't be poor by and by, when the old woman is dead. I hope it won't be long, for I can't stand it much longer.” "Isn't she kind to you?"

"I suppose she means to be kind," he said gratingly. "She whines about me so, and is always wanting to kiss me". and he made a harsh sound in his throat; "I can't bear being kissed by an old woman.'

"It doesn't matter when she is your aunt; it isn't as if you were married to her. Wouldn't it be awful to be married to an old woman?"

"Ugh! I think I should kill her, Car. oline. Let me kiss you."

"Let's say all we'll do when we get our money, Alfred, dear," the girl said, in a wheedling voice. "I am glad of this rain, for we can't go back till it leaves off a bit; let's say all we'll do when we get her money.

"I believe you care more about her money than you do about me," he said, in the grumbling voice Aunt Anne knew well.

"And has she left it all to you, Alfred?" the girl's voice-for it was a girl's voice asked.

"Every penny. I took good care of that; and I'll take good care she doesn't alter it, too."

"But when do you think she'll get it?"

"As soon as this cousin of hers dies. He has been dying these ever so many months," Alfred Wimple said discontentedly; "only he's so long about it."

"But she won't give it to you right away when she has got it herself. You'll have

to wait till she dies."

"I don't think she'll live long," he said grimly; "I'm half afraid, sometimes, that she won't last as long as he will, unless he makes haste."

you kissing your wedding gown as you sat and stitched at it the night before."

"I thought I'd never get it done in time."

"You were determined to have a new one, weren't you?"

"I thought it would be unlucky if I didn't, though there wasn't anybody but you to see it. It isn't that I care for money, Alfred," she went on- "don't think it. It's only mother that makes the fuss. We'll pay her up quick when we've got it, and we'll be awfully good to grand mother; but, as for me, I wouldn't care if you hadn't a penny. It's only you I

want."

"And it's only you I want," he said, with a little cough that belied his words. "What is that rustling, Alfred?” — is there any one about?

"It's only the rain among the grass and leaves; I wish it'd leave off - I ought to be getting in."

"What time is she coming back from London?"

"I expect she'll be here soon now. You had better give me that money, Caroline."

"It's hidden in my dress wait till I get it out; I hope mother won't hear I was paid, or she'll wonder what I've done with it."

"I can't do without a little money," he said, in the tone Aunt Anne had often heard; "and the old woman is so closefisted she expects me to account for everything she gives me."

"Well, there it is-twenty-two shillings and sixpence. I don't want grandmother to know, for she said last time she wondered you liked taking it."

"A man has a right to his wife's earnings," he said firmly.

"Well, I've got three dresses in the house to do; they'll come to a good bit. It isn't that I mind giving it. Alfred, there's some one against the back of the shed."

"It's only the branches of the trees brushing against it," he said. "I must go back the old woman will be coming home."

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"Don't go till it stops raining a bit," she pleaded; and put your arms tighter round me, I am not with you so often now. Aren't you glad I am not an old woman?"

"Ugh!" and he made a sound of disgust. "Old women make me sick." "Well, you'll be old long before I am," she said, with a triumphant laugh. 'My goodness! look at the rain."

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Aunt Anne went slowly along the narrow pathway, down into the valley, and up towards the larch and fir-trees again. Her strength was almost spent when she reached the garden. She bent her head beneath the down-pour, and dragged herself, in such frightened haste as she could manage, to the house. She stopped for a moment beneath the veranda, as if to be sure that she was awake. She looked, half incredulously, down at her wet and clinging clothes, and then into the darkness and distance. Beyond the trees and across the valley she knew that two people were saying their good-byes. She imagined their looks and words and their caresses. It seemed as if the whole world were theirs it had been pulled from under her feet to make a heaven for them. She was trembling with cold and fear, but VOL. LXXIX. 4090

LIVING AGE.

she told herself that there was one thing left at which she must clutch a little longer her self-control and dignity.

"I thought," she said, bewildered, and with the strange, hunted look on her face, as she entered the cottage-"I thought God had forgiven me and sent him back, but it is all a mistake. Perhaps it is part of my punishment." Everything looked strange to her; as if years had passed since she had left it only an hour ago, She stood by the drawing-room door for a moment, looking in at the fire that had burned up and made a cheerful blaze, but she was afraid to go nearer to it. She felt like an outcast from everywhere; there was no place for her in the world, no one who wanted her, nothing left to do. And there was no love for her, and no forgetfulness; she had to bear pain-that alone was her portion. She wanted to lie down and die, very much, but death and love alike are often strangely difficult to those who need them most. She meandered into the kitchen, without any settled plan of what she was going to do.

"Jane," she said, "the moment you have finished taking in the dinner, I want you to go up-stairs and follow the directions I will give you."

"Yes, ma'am," Jane answered, with some astonishment when she had listened to them; "but do you mean to-night?" "Yes, I mean to-night," Aunt Anne said, and turned away.

"Let me take your shawl, ma'am ; it is wringing wet."

"I shall be glad if you will divest me of it," the old lady said gently," and if you will bring me my cap and slippers; I am fatigued, and cannot ascend the stairs." She sat down for a minute, and listened to Jane's footsteps going and returning. It seemed as if the whole house were full of shame and agony; a single step in any direction might take her into its midst she did not dare venture there till she had finished the task that was before her. She went into the dining-room, with a strange, bewildered air still upon her, as if she were doubtful whether it was the room that she had known so well, or if it had, somehow, been changed in the last hour. The cloth was laid; the primroses were in their place; the candles were lit, for it was nearly dinner-time; the blinds were down, and the curtains drawn. She looked at the easy-chair she had put ready for Alfred, with the little table beside it, and the papers and the violets. Then she went up to the mantelpiece and rang a hand-bell that stood on it.